


love will kill and save me

by ang_gray_smol



Series: three times the charm [2]
Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blood and Gore, Dissection, Heavy Angst, Language of Flowers, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, hanahaki byou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol
Summary: 花吐き病 hanahaki byou - an illness where the patient throws up and coughs out flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love.[title from The Beauty and The Tragedy by Trading Yesterday]





	1. naisip mo bang iniisip kita ngayon

**Author's Note:**

> i fucking love flower language and angst and el nolibusterismo  
> (so u combine the three and get a clusterfuck of feels haha pasensya na po kasi sobrang emo kong tao)
> 
>  
> 
> (when will ren stop using song lyrics as fic titles 2k17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✿Elibarra
> 
> sweet pea ✿✿✿ goodbye/departure • poisonous especially if seeds are ingested in large quantity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Makalimutin by Kamara

Crisostomo heard a gruff cough beyond the door of his study, and immediately rushed over to open the door. He smiled when he saw the person on the other side (who was accompanied by the a rather exasperated-looking servant).

“An unexpected meeting, Elias.”

Elias nodded stiffly, and Crisostomo found it cute, seeing him still so formal around the household. He couldn’t wait for the day when Elias would open up and be more casual around him, like they were equal and that social class was a thing of the mind.

Crisostomo beckoned Elias in, and offered a seat by his desk.

“Well?” Crisostomo asked, once Elias sat down. His eyes darted around to the bookshelves lining the walls, and that one intricately-designed porcelain vase of red, unidentified flowers perched on a simple wooden table beside the window.

“Are you looking at those?” Crisostomo inquired, breaking Elias out of his awkward reverie. “They’re just plain red flowers, nothing special.”

Elias nodded. “I was just wondering how you are at the moment, _senyor_.”

Crisostomo shrugged flippantly. “ _Padre_ Damaso’s on my case again, but that isn’t really something to put me off.”

Elias nodded again, taking in all the information. His cause is genuine—he wanted to inquire how _senyor_ Ibarra was doing, despite the looming risks to his life, but as always, the _ilustrado_ managed to render him speechless. It was embarrassing, honestly, just thinking about all the times when Elias was caught staring out into the distance. They were too many times to count, and that’s one too many.

“Anything…else?”

Crisostomo paused, and toyed with the fountain pen sticking out of the inkwell.

“Nothing, really.”

A long silence followed, before Elias made a move to stand up.

“Were you concerned about me, Elias?”

“Of course, _senyor_. I have a debt to repay.”

Crisostomo smiled graciously, and led Elias out the door of his study.

As Crisostomo closed the door behind Elias, a red petal fell to the floor.

.

.

.

Elias was shy to admit it, but he did find solace in the house that Salome left for him. It reminded him of her lively spirit, and the quiet companion that she made when he was down in the dumps. In some sense she was right when she said her spirit will live on in the house, a presence to give him solace in times of doubt.

Tonight was one of those rare times where he rested in the house hidden in the forest. He sat on the porch where Salome was always doing her embroidery, turning his _salakot_ in his hands over and over again, thinking about _senyor_ Crisostomo, Crisostomo Ibarra, _senyor_ Ibarra, and, surprise, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra.

He could hear Salome’s teasing voice in his head, going, “Oh? What’s this? Elias is thinking of someone? How very unexpected of you.”

Normally he’d let it slide because he cared for Salome and let her do whatever she pleased with him, but now that it’s just the spectre of her voice, he unabashedly said, “Shut up,” into the dead of the night.

.

.

.

It was close to midnight, or so Elias gauged, when he jolted awake, his torso drenched in sweat.

His throat burned as a cough threatened to rip through his lungs, but Elias stifled it anyway, like the stubborn brat he is.

He was curled in on himself on the _banig_ , a hand clutching the front of his shirt. His breaths were short and hurried, and he knows doing that is worse for his health, that he shouldn’t be doing it at all, but the forest was too quiet at night and anyone could hear him at any given moment, and no, he doesn’t want anyone to fucking hear him.

So he suffered in silence.

Inwardly, he cursed at Crisostomo Ibarra for existing, for being the cause of his suffering. Maybe if that man didn’t save him from the crocodile during that fishing trip, he wouldn’t have to trouble over making sure he’s safe and that nothing or no one would be coming to get him. Maybe if Elias was a bit more uncaring about other human beings he would’ve been more aware of his health, and would’ve taken better care of himself the past few days. Maybe if Elias just stopped feeling so obligated to pay that debt, then he wouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of Crisostomo Ibarra.

But he can’t.

.

.

.

The cough was getting worse, he surmised. That was to be expected anyway.

Everyday is like dipping in and out of the deep sea, breaths being cut short by the abrupt pain in his chest that threatens to pierce right through his heart and let him bleed alone in the water. He has no regrets about his choices, as he told himself a long time ago that regrets are to heavy to carry everyday.

Yes, he doesn’t regret loving him, but it’s going to kill him one day. It hurts, it _fucking_ hurts, how it all falls on deaf ears and unknowing hands, and even if he has that small sliver of hope that maybe those ears would start listening to his quiet murmurs, or those hands would start holding him, caressing him with the mutual understanding that he desired to see, to feel, ever since he started coughing up red flowers, it won’t ever be enough until it happens.

He feels horrible. How dare he torture himself like this, by harbouring feelings for this one man who’s unaware of the magnitude of emotions that threaten to spill out from his mouth in sweet peas and blood.

.

.

.

The next time he visited, it was after his trip to Batangas.

He thought of getting the _ilustrado_ a book to add to his massive collection, since amassing knowledge knows no true bounds, despite the former insisting that Elias shouldn’t be obliged to gift him something all because Elias is in his debt.

Even then, he got Crisostomo a nice leather-bound book about botany. At the back of his mind he was worried that Crisostomo would find his impromptu gift petty because he has better tomes about the subject matter in his study, but it was always worth the try.

(He read it for himself on his way back to the city. He found it rather nice.)

Cautiously, Elias knocked at the front door of Crisostomo’s mansion, the botany book in his hand. He wasn’t particularly nervous, but his hands trembled slightly. Perhaps…the thought of meeting the _ilustrado_ again after a while excited him.

A servant ushered him inside, prompting to offer some water when Elias started coughing again (to which he declined politely).

“ _Senyor_ Ibarra’s quite busy at this moment, but he will attend to you as soon as possible,” the servant said briskly. Elias nodded his approval, before the servant turned around and headed towards another part of the house.

Elias slid the salakot off his forehead, and pushing to let it rest at the back of his head. He fiddled with the book in his hands, poking the corners, running his finger along the spine and across the pages. All the while, he coughed meekly, making sure that no one could hear him.

A few minutes later, the same servant appeared and urged Elias to follow him to Crisostomo’s study. Following suit, he and the servant made their way up a flight of stairs, down a corridor before stopping at the same aged narra door.

The servant gave three strong knocks, before saying, “ _Senyor_! You have a guest.”

Inside, Elias could vaguely hear Crisostomo coughing harshly, and instantly felt worried.

The servant knocked again, this time more insistently. “ _Senyor_!”

“Yes, yes,” said Crisostomo, his voice muffled. “Bring them in.”

Elias twisted the doorknob of Crisostomo’s study, and let himself in.

Crisostomo was hunched over his desk, a handkerchief over his mouth, and a bowl of red flowers beside the inkwell. It wasn’t there the last time Elias visited, but it complemented the room rather nicely, aside from the vase beside the window.

“Ah, Elias!” Crisostomo said, greeting him cheerfully. Discreetly, he pocketed his handkerchief, and walked over to Elias.

“I brought you a book,” Elias said, handing over the botany book. “I thought you’d take a bit of interest in plants, seeing that you have quite a lot of them around here.”

Crisostomo smiled. “How thoughtful of you.” He set the book on his desk, not without gazing lovingly at the cover.

Elias felt the corners of his lips quirk up the slightest bit before he felt the familiar contracting in his chest. He put a hand to his mouth the stifle his cough, but it didn’t escape Crisostomo’s eyes.

“Elias, are you alright?”

Elias averted his eyes, embarrassed to show his condition to the _ilustrado_. Crisostomo’s gaze narrowed, scrutinizing the pilot in front of him.

“W-what is it, _senyor_?” Elias asked, feeling a drop of sweat slide down his side in a very uncomfortable manner.

“Do you…are you coughing?”

Elias gulped. He didn’t expect Crisostomo to take note so easily, but hey, the man was well educated in medicine, so nothing could escape his keen gaze.

“Yes.”

Crisostomo nodded. “How long have you had the cough?”

“Four days ago.”

“You look like you still need to say something.”

“…It started the night before I left for Batangas.”

“Oh.” Crisostomo went over to his desk, where a glass of water rested near his papers.

“Drink up. You have colds.”

“I…I have what?”

“Goodness, don’t tell me…” Crisostomo’s grin grew wider. “Did you overreact when you realized you had colds?”

Elias felt heat surge up to his cheeks. He shook his head vehemently, as Crisostomo started laughing, clutching his stomach and tipping his head back.

“I barely got sick when I was a child!” Elias retorted. “I wouldn’t possibly know!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Crisostomo said, waving a flippant hand as he tried to calm down from laughing. “You just need to drink water more often.”

“Oh, okay—”

Suddenly, Crisostomo doubled over, heaving and coughing raggedly. Elias rushed to the _ilustrado’s_ side, supporting him, until Crisostomo pulled his hand away, revealing an ugly mixture of blood, spit, and flowers.

Elias’ eyes widened in horror. Those were the exact same flowers in the bowl. When he took a closer look at it, he could see clumps of sticky blood on some of the petals.

“Hey, Elias,” Crisostomo breathed. Blood dripped from his lips as he spoke. Elias could only wordlessly hold Crisostomo, his panic rising.

“What do you…feel about me?”

Elias opened his mouth, and closed it again, like a fish out of water, wracking his mind for words to say, but he was too distracted by the flower in Crisostomo’s hand.

_That’s a…sweet pea. Yes, I read about it in the book I bought. It’s a harmless flower, but the seeds…the_ seeds _…oh god, the seeds are poisonous if ingested in large quantities._

“ _Senyor_ , you need to get treatment—”

“Answer my question first.”

“ _Senyor_ —”

“ANSWER ME FIRST.”

Crisostomo was breathing heavily now. He wiped the blood from his lips.

“You are an important person to me, _Senyor_. I owe you my life, thus I am willing to do everything in my power to be able to fulfill that debt.”

Crisostomo’s lower lip trembled, before he forced a small smile.

“Do you…love me?”

Elias assisted Crisostomo towards his desk, pulling the chair out so he could catch a breath. He offered the same glass of water from earlier, now half-empty, but Crisostomo declined.

“You are a dear friend to me, _senyor_.”

Crisostomo nodded, as another cough wracked through his body.

_I see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://almightytrashcan.tumblr.com/post/163671117228/love-will-kill-and-save-me-hanahaki-byou-series)


	2. hindi ko naman yata ikamamatay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✿Basagani
> 
> old-fashioned bleeding heart ✿✿✿ tragic love that stemmed from extreme devotion • poisonous in large quantities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of Waltz of Four Left Feet by Shirebound and Busking
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> **_WARNING: THERE'S BLOOD AND GUTS IN THIS. IF IT MAKES YOU QUEASY I SUGGEST YOU STOP READING IMMEDIATELY._**  
> 

Isagani was spacing out, even if he knows he shouldn’t be.

He was looking at Paulita, he could see her jabber on and on about something far from his reality. She waved her fan every now and then, looked at him with a wry expression, as though asking for his approval. She must be talking about his hometown again.

Isagani should be listening, but he really isn’t. But Paulita is predictable. She’s now looking at him again, this time with a face like that of a kicked dog.

“Were you even paying attention?” Paulita furrowed her eyebrows, and prepared a retort at the back of her throat.

“Of course,” he replied proudly. “You want the two of us to go on a walk in the Walled City without your aunt breathing down on our necks, am I right?”

Paulita’s eyes widened. She flushed a faint pink, and hid her face behind her fan.

Isagani smiled. Paulita is predictable.

Something caught in the corner of Isagani’s eye. The figure of a young man in uniform, holding some pamphlets in his hand. Isagani felt his heart stop.

“Basilio?” He didn’t stop himself from calling out to him. Basilio turned around, confused, until he spotted Isagani and Paulita sitting at one of the iron-wrought benches. Paulita waved at Basilio, and beckoned to him to come over. Basilio sheepishly turned down the offer. He pointed at his throat, and mouthed “cough”.

Isagani gave him a thumbs up. “I understand,” he mouthed back. Basilio smiled gratefully, before he rushed off to somewhere.

“How odd,” Paulita mused. “It seems that lots of people have been coming down with the cough lately. You too, Isagani.”

He laughed.

.

.

.

The first time he coughed, drops of blood appeared on his hand.

He immediately went to Basilio to check for any lung-related illness, but the latter found none. “Maybe it’s just bleeding from your mouth,” he suggested. Isagani mulled it over until he remembered that while he was eating he bit his tongue too hard and he started choking on his food.

“There you go,” Basilio smiled, putting a hand on his hip. “You overreacted.”

(If Isagani told him that he felt his heart clench within his ribs, the wind knocked out of him as though he was punched through the gut, his throat parched because he wanted to tell Basilio how beautiful he looked, would Basilio still call it overreacting?)

The second time he coughed, a flower came along with it. A whole flower. It was pink, and looked like a heart.

Scientifically speaking, that is _impossible_. Isagani is not a scientist, but he still read about the organ systems of the human body before. Gastric acid breaks down the contents of the stomach and melts them into something easily absorbed by the small intestine. So how the hell could he cough out a whole flower?

.

.

.

The rest of the gang went to the usual panciteria, riding easily on Makaraig’s wallet. Isagani accompanied Basilio out for a night walk.

“You don’t have a date with Paulita today?” Basilio asked, gazing up at the sky, now dotted with various stars.

“Her aunt is still suspicious of me,” Isagani replied, rubbing his neck. “She doesn’t want Paulita to come anywhere near me at all!”

“That’s rough.” Basilio bowed his head, observing the cobblestone as they walked. Isagani felt a shot of fondness go right through him. He reached out to pat Basilio’s back, when he doubled over, a cough threatening to rip his lungs out.

“Gani?!”

Immediately, Basilio had his arms under Isagani’s as he struggled to support the larger male.

“Come on, we’re going to my place. You need water.”

Isagani could only nod, as another wave of coughs hit him.

Basilio grimaced. “ _Diyos ko_ , that’s a strong cough you have…” He thought back to the time Isagani asked him to check if he has a serious lung disease or anything. He said Isagani was just overreacting, but now he might have made a grave mistake in diagnosing Isagani as such.

“Come on, we’re almost there.”

They’ve attracted a few stares from passersby, some confused, others mortified. None of them made a move to help, though.

When they reached Basilio’s residence, he looked down to check on Isagani.

“Gani, are you okay—”

Basilio stood stock still.

In Isagani’s hand was a mass of pink flowers, whole and bloody. On his lips were blood and flower petals.

“What the hell…”

“Water, just water would do,” Isagani gasped, throwing the flowers to the side and wiping his mouth.

Basilio nodded stiffly, before running back inside the house. Isagani inhaled deeply, then exhaled, to calm his throat.

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

“Gani!” Basilio came back with a glass of water in his hand. Isagani smiled gratefully before taking the glass, and downing the contents in one go.

“So…” Basilio started. “Care to explain?”

Isagani looked down at the flowers he just threw, to the blood on his arm.

“I’d…rather not.”

.

.

.

It was a dark room. There was a light source somewhere at the side, but whatever it was, it was strong enough to illuminate a bit of Isagani’s surroundings.

There was a table by his feet. There were different tools on top of it, tools that, Isagani realized with a shudder, were for dissecting animals. He knew that much because he saw Basilio brandish one some time ago (he didn’t want to ask where he got it).

He tried to sit up, but his neck and his limbs were fastened securely to the cot that he was lying on. His chest was bare, and there were dashed lines marked on his chest, from his clavicle all the way down to his navel.

“You’re awake.”

Isagani looked to the direction of the voice. Out of the shadows, Basilio stepped out, with an unnerving smile on his face.

“What is this? Basilio, what are you doing?” Isagani demanded. He tried to wrangle his arms out of their bindings, but the belts were too tight to even move a single bit.

“Oh, there’s something I want to check on,” Basilio said, his voice eerie and soft. He picked up a long, thin thing from the table. It was a scalpel.

“Be a dear, and stay still, okay Gani?”

Basilio walked over to Isagani’s side, and positioned the scalpel to the top of the dashed lines. Isagani’s eyes widened in horror.

“Wait—”

His words got cut off when Basilio pressed the scalpel down, and started drawing a line all the way downwards. Isagani couldn’t scream—he couldn’t feel the pain. His words failed him.

When the scalpel reached the diaphragm, Basilio suddenly drove the knife in deep, splitting Isagani’s organs in two. Blood flowed over Isagani’s skin like a spilled glass of water. They trickled onto the cot, onto the floor, flowing like tiny snakes across a grassy plain.

“What’s this?” Basilio asked in a singsong voice. Isagani craned his neck to see what Basilio was talking about.

His entire torso, his stomach, now open and bursting with pink flowers.

“I’ve read about this myth before,” Basilio said, picking up one of the flowers and examining it. “You cough up flowers when your love is unrequited, and the only way to remove the flowers is through surgery, right? But then, your feelings for that person will go away as well. I never knew it was true, or that it could happen to someone like you, Isagani.”

“I have no such feelings!” Isagani growled. “My heart is for Paulita only, no one else.”

“The flowers tell otherwise,” Basilio replied calmly.

“You have feelings for me, don’t you?

Isagani froze. The room fell quiet. Isagani’s blood dripped onto the floor.

 _Drip, drip, drip_.

“You say you love Paulita, but I’m not dumb, Isagani. I’m not blind either.” Basilio’s lips curled into a terrifying smile.

“You’re such a tragic person too. Befitting of a poet. This flower here—” Basilio held the flower, still sticky with blood, to Isagani’s face, “—is an old-fashioned bleeding heart. It’s generally a harmless flower, but becomes poisonous if ingested in large quantities.”

Basilio picked up another flower. “You’re willing to die for your quiet devotion? How tasteful of you.”

“Shut up, you!” Isagani never raised his voice at Basilio, nor his hand. But now, he wants nothing more than to strangle Basilio, curl his fingers around his neck, watch them bruise as the light from Basilio’s eyes slowly fades and the air from his lungs is being cut off.

(Maybe then, he could kill his feelings for Basilio too.)

Basilio placed his hand on Isagani’s rib cage. He stroked them, up and down, up and down, up and down, before reaching underneath to grab the heart.

Isagani froze. He couldn’t see what Basilio was doing, but he could definitely feel Basilio caressing his heart, feeling the veins and arteries thrusting around it, as well as the steady beat of blood. He could feel Basilio drag his nails across the surface, before taking it into his fist and squeezing it violently.

Isagani shuddered. His fists balled up tightly, and his toes curled inwardly. He could see red behind his eyes, his head starting to spin, his breaths shortening. It felt _weird_.

“S-Stop…”

Basilio squeezed his heart again, feeling one of his nails cut into the tissue. Satisfied, he snaked his hand out of the ribcage.

“I think I know what you’re thinking right now,” Basilio said, observing his scarlet hand. “You want to kill me, in the hopes that you could kill your feelings for me too.”

“No!”

“Lie. That’s exactly what you want to do,” Basilio snarled. “You’re predictable, Gani.”

Isagani faltered under Basilio’s intense gaze. What else could he do? He’s being cut up like an animal for dissection, and his mind clouded over with wanting to murder his best friend, all for some stupid flowers?!

“Here, let me help you then.” One by one, Basilio plucked the flowers from Isagani’s stomach, all the while singing, “He loves me, he loves me not…” at each flower.

The blood loss was taking its toll. Isagani was starting to lose life. His vision grew blurry, his grip on reality was slipping.

Basilio pulled out the last flower from Isagani’s stomach. He grinned menacingly.

“He loves me!”

.

.

.

Isagani woke up with a jolt. The kerosene lamp beside his bed was still lit, but it was starting to flicker at the lack of oil.

His skin was matted in sweat, his hair clung to his forehead in sticky clumps. He inhaled and exhaled heavily, trying to catch his breath. His heart hammered against his ribs, the sound too loud in the silence of the night

It was still dark outside. The sun didn’t show signs of rising yet. It must be midnight.

Remembering the dream, Isagani pulled off his shirt, and felt his chest. No, it wasn’t cut up, no it wasn’t covered in blood, yes it’s normal, the way it should be.

Isagani sighed in relief, before a familiar bubbling in his throat gave rise to another coughing fit.

He pulled his hand away to a clump of bloody, pink flowers.

The dream wasn’t real.

The flowers are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Maria, aka @Iakambini / [placidings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings) kasi siya lang yung nakahanap sakin sa fb so as a reward i wrote her a fic which is this haha **i'm sorry**
> 
> (idk if you guys noticed but i stopped giving alt. tumblr links to my fics--it's just too tedious to do anyway. just a heads up if you guys were wondering)


	3. kakalimutan na kita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ✿Penilaez
> 
> red spider lily ✿✿✿ never to meet again • bulbs are poisonous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Sa Hindi Pag-alala by Munimuni
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> _WARNING: self-harm and other depressing ideations mentioned below. if it makes you uncomfortable then you may leave._  
> 

Juanito has heard of better musicians than him out there. Better people. He can’t pinpoint exact locations, but he’s sure this country has its own fair share of talent. Besides, it’s been nearly three centuries since the arrival of the Spanish. Surely in that timespan they bred masters in their own right.

Juanito knows he’s no master. Despite his years of practice, he can never really aspire to be one. He’s stuck as someone _good_ , but not really _better_ , and absolutely not _best_. But, whatever, right? He can keep playing the violin as a hobby, something that he can use to entertain his father’s guests at parties, or to impress his friends at university with his deft, precise fingers. He can use it to entertain himself as well, whenever he’s bored and he can’t seem to find a pleasant woman to start a conversation with.

Whatever, right? He can keep playing the violin.

 

 

 

He locked himself up in his room again, clutching his head as though he wanted to sever it off clean from his shoulders. He was on the brink of tears, but they never came. Juanito wanted to tear out his throat, or his heart, or whatever his hands can find purchase on.

His eyes fell on his violin case, tucked in the corner of his room.

Right, he can play the violin.

Juanito can play the violin.

 

 

 

“Hey there,” Juanito said, grinning in what he hopes is a handsome smirk. He’s made it his life goal to impress one Placido Penitente while he’s in school, maybe so that his depressingly bleak life can gain a bit of color somehow.

“What.” Placido hailed from Batangas, and Juanito immediately slotted in every stereotype that he knew. One of them was that he probably answers sharply and takes fucks from no one.

“I’m Juanito Pelaez, and I play the violin.” Juanito’s still grinning, but this time he holds out his hand for a handshake. He’s wearing long sleeves even if it’s hot out, the cuffs covering half his hand.

Placido looked at the hand being offered to him, then back to the person offering the hand. Hesitantly, he took it. Juanito shook hands rather vigorously, much to Placido’s distaste.

“Is that all?” Placido asked, gathering his books. “I don’t want to be late for the next class.”

“Oh, yes, quite. Thank you for your time, good sir.” A vein twitched in Placido’s forehead, and Juanito knew he just made it onto Placido’s shitlist.

Which wasn’t entirely bad. As long as it made his life a bit more interesting, then that could do.

 

 

 

“Since you’re from Batangas, do you have a balisong?”

“The fact that you restrict your knowledge to simple stereotypes disgusts me.”

“So do you have one?”

Placido looked up from his book. Juanito doesn’t even know why he even insists on studying. Their teacher is useless and they can get full marks easily if the teacher is bribed right. It’s endearing, nonetheless.

They sat around the university plaza, on one of the wrought-iron benches meant to imitate those seen in French parks. Juanito was lazily observing Placido study, all the while wondering how painful would it be if he hit his head on the bench armrest.

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“Can I borrow it?” The words are out before Juanito could filter them. Oh well, this is no time to take things back anymore.

Placido’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

“I want to test it out on something.”

“On what? I won’t give it to you unless you specify your reasons.” Juanito must’ve imagined it, but he swore he saw Placido’s eyes flicker to his arms.

“Cutting horsehair for my new bow. I’m a violinist, remember?”

Placido opened his mouth to argue, probably because that sounded like the shittiest reason ever. It’s highly impossible that Juanito is directly involved with any manufacturing details for his instrument, yet Placido doesn’t seem to have the strength to argue, much less say anything more. He dug his hand into his worn leather messenger bag, groped around the very bottom, and produced a thin, silver hilt.

Juanito’s eyes widened. Admittedly, he didn’t actually think Placido would have a live weapon on him at all costs.

“You know how balisongs work, right? You have to flip it open, then flip it again.”

“Sure, sure,” Juanito said, partly dazed. He took the silver knife from Placido’s hand, weighing it carefully.

“Here, I’ll teach you,” Placido prompted. He inched closer to Juanito, and placed his own hand over Juanito’s.

Juanito gulped. Okay, sure, he’s teased Placido quite a lot of times now, he should be _fine_ with smaller shared spaces. So why is his heart beating so fast? Oh god, are his palms sweating…

(Juanito noticed only belatedly that Placido’s hand is rough, like sandpaper. Okay, maybe not exactly like sandpaper, but it was worn, and callused in some parts. It’s a hand that’s seen, and done more things than what Juanito’s social position would ask of him to do.)

“Hold the knife like this, then flick your wrist.” Placido demonstrated the motion on Juanito, then let go so he could imitate what he just did.

Juanito flicked the knife weakly, so it only opened for a fraction, before snapping back closed. Placido clicked his tongue.

“Flick your wrist harder.” Placido latched onto Juanito’s wrist. His eyes widened in surprise. “Like this.”

“LET GO.”

Juanito wrenched his hand away, and winced. Placido stared at him disbelievingly, until spots of red started to bloom on Juanito’s shirtsleeve.

A flare of anger spread in Placido.

“Give my knife back.”

 

 

 

Placido became even pissier towards Juanito after that day. He can’t be blamed, though.

Much as in the same way it can’t be helped.

 

 

 

Juanito woke up in the middle of the night, his chest feeling like it was going to burst.

He rushed to the lavatory, his throat filling up and clogging his nose. His heart started to race, pounding heavily against his ribs. Was this it?

He tore the lavatory door open, hard enough to probably rip it off its hinges. Then, he leaned against the sink, and started coughing.

It was a ragged cough, threatening to rip him apart. He heaved and heaved, and closed his eyes in a futile attempt to wait for the pain to subside.

Something soft, albeit sticky, fluttered onto his arm. Juanito’s eyes snapped open.

It was a flower. A small, red spider lily, matted in blood.

Juanito’s eyes darted to the sink. It was full of spider lilies, their deep crimson and the red of his blood mixing together, staining the porcelain white.

 

 

 

So.

Red spider lily bulbs are poisonous. As far as he can see, though, he hasn’t been coughing any bulbs, only the flower itself (and in disturbingly huge quantities).

_I think…I’m dead. I’m dead, and I’m coughing out flowers as part of my penance. There’s no way this can happen in real life._

Juanito laughed at his own thoughts.

_Penance. It’s the same as self-punishment._

 

 

 

Placido cornered him one day. Classes were cut short due to the teachers having some sort of celebration that the students wanted to partake in as well (especially if they’re in their teacher’s favour).

“Oho, Placiding, you’re being bold, aren’t you?” Juanito jibed, but his head was spinning. Why was his head spinning?

Placido took Juanito’s arm, more gently this time, and pulled up the sleeve. Juanito’s chest started to tighten, a telltale sign of bad things to follow. Placido recoiled at the sight.

Deep gashes lined Juanito’s forearm. Most of them were healed, and were raised, white abrasions. There were others that seemed newly inflicted, a dark red crisscrossing over old marks.

Placido sighed deeply.

“I won’t ask why.”

Juanito’s chest tightened even further. Was that because of the cough?

He smiled like it wasn’t a big deal, so he could tick Placido off and leave his personal concerns alone, but Placido was insistent. Why the hell was he so damn insistent? They’ve only known each other for an entire school year, and even then all that Juanito did was just piss Placido off on a regular basis.

“But I want to help you.”

Juanito’s smile grew wider, not out of appreciation, but in disgust.

_Disgust? Are you sure?_

“No, you don’t,” Juanito said. “You just pity me.”

“Fine, then maybe I do, but still!”

Placido stepped closer, holding out his hand, and Juanito pushed him away.

“SHUT UP! For fucks sake you are such a _pain_.”

“…Juanito—”

“Just. Shut up. Please. And don’t speak of this to anyone, would ya?” The tightness in Juanito’s chest was overwhelming, and he put his hand over his mouth. A cough bubbled in his throat.

“Juanito?”

“I said shut up, right?” He wiped his mouth angrily. “Great, now I’ve got blood all over my sleeves as well.” He stormed off to the nearest lavatory to wash.

“B-Blood?!” Something red seemed to fall in front of Placido. When he looked down, it was a red spider lily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> salamat sa pagsubaybay ayoko nang magsulat

**Author's Note:**

> **this turned into: disturbing angst fest the fandom tries to shy away from**
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> maybe if i have time i'll redo the elibarra chapter to make it something similarly themed, but idk really
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> hmu on tumblr: almightytrashcan.tumblr.com, or on twitter: @stabby_sisiw


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